


Combing Through the Tangles

by hufflecas, Ruby_Blueeyes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Sam has a glorious moose mane, Season 9, Wings, fading grace!cas, jealous!Dean, post-season 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hufflecas/pseuds/hufflecas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruby_Blueeyes/pseuds/Ruby_Blueeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it is revealed that Castiel is a bit of a sloppy angel, and Dean is a possessive cuddler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Combing Through the Tangles

**Author's Note:**

> This started out, believe it or not, as a series of texts between the two authors and became much, much more.

Another quiet night. Well, as quiet as nights ever were in the middle of a case. When you were stuck. And there was nothing that could help you except one book, on the middle shelf, of the middle bookcase, in the middle of the bunker, which was an entire night’s drive away.

Fuck.

“You forgot the book, you go back and get it,” Dean snapped at Sam, his eyes burning a little from hours of driving earlier that day. As much as he loved Baby, he was fucking tired and starting to feel his age. Ok, well, not linear age. He was starting to feel every damn bump and bruise and slightly offset bone from every time he had broken another one and Sam had to set it. Normally Cas could have just mojo’ed everything away, but his Grace was diminishing as time went on, and Dean was not going to let him waste even an iota of anything the angel had left on him. They needed an angel cure, and fast.

Dean glanced over at his friend. Castiel was curled up on the lumpy motel couch, and Dean could see the faint outline of his wings, folded a little haphazardly, and a feather or two sticking out at a crazy angle. _That_ had been an unforeseen side effect of fading Grace-- an angel with suddenly corporeal wings. It was upsetting in a way, a constant reminder that his friend was sick _(dying),_ but at the same time neither Dean nor Sam could help falling in love with the soft, iridescent, and slightly glowy things. They reminded Dean of a book he had read in an English class when he was young, something about a girl trapped on an island, and she made a skirt of cormorant feathers. Dean had no idea what a cormorant was, but he was pretty sure that was what Cas’ wings looked like.

It also meant that they had to keep Castiel more or less out of sight. The brothers certainly didn’t need a nerdy dude with wings attracting attention on top of everything else they were permanently dealing with.

Sam huffed and puffed at the necessity of driving all the way back to Lebanon, but after a while had to acquiesce. Both Dean and Castiel looked like they had come out the wrong end of a bar brawl, and they hadn’t even _done_ anything that day except drive toward the next case and play an absurdly difficult game of twenty questions. (Cas took things just a little too literally. Which drove Dean nuts. And made Sam laugh uproariously.) It had been a good day, but they were just… exhausted. Maybe an early night would be best for both of them. Sam smiled a bit to himself and shook his head as he closed the door behind him and headed toward the car. _If_ those two went to sleep. Time would tell.

Cas had begun to nod off on the couch. Dean could not fathom how, given how awkwardly his limbs and wings and tangled trenchcoat were strewn about him. He couldn’t leave the sleepy angel like that-- he would wake up in seven different kinds of ouch if he did. Sighing, Dean walked over and tugged on a pin feather.

Cas jumped a little, frowning. “Dean, please remember that those are _sensitive_.”

“Yeah, yeah. You should really brush ‘em or something Cas, they’re starting to get dusty. I think there’s a stale cheeto in there.”

The angel opened one eye, and pinned Dean with a glare. “Which I do not eat.” He continued the glare. “I hope you understand this implies that I am blaming you for errant junk food remains.”

Dean shrugged. “Coulda been Kevin. Or Meg. Was it Meg?” He raised an accusing eyebrow at the irritated man.

“Meg always cleaned her cheetos up after herself. I still blame you.”

Dean fell silent, letting his hands drop away from the disarray of feathers in front of him.

“Dean? I’ll let you groom my wings if you stop complaining about the dust.”

The hunter’s voice dropped three notes, and Cas could pick up a small edge of anger in the line of his jaw. He knew his friend so well. That’s what made this fun.

“ _Meg_ was eating _cheetos_ in your _wings?!_ What the fuck, Cas!”

“Not _in_ them Dean. Don’t be ridiculous. It was when we watched black and white horror films on the couch in the hospital dayroom.”

Dean blanched. “It’s been _that_ long since you cleaned your wings? Man that’s-- wait a minute.” Something clicked into place. “You were _CUDDLING_ with _MEG?!_ ”

Castiel looked up, blue eyes wide and extra innocent. “She was hogging the popcorn. It was the only way to reach the bowl.”

The image was not comforting. In fact, the idea of Cas with his arm around Meg was… wrong. Infuriating. Gross.

Painful.

Dean narrowed his eyes. No way, Cas was messing with him, that could not be how it was. “You said it was cheetos, not popcorn.”

“We watched more than one movie, Dean.”

“So you… _cuddled_ … several times.”

“We watched several movies,” Castiel said plainly.

They regarded each other in the way they always had, eyes searching faces for all the microexpressions neither man was aware he was making. Dean just couldn’t tell if Cas was messing with him or not. Cas knew for a fact that Dean was irritated, and probably a little upset. Damn angel always had the upper hand on him. _Me and my stupid shouty brain,_ thought Dean. _No fucking poker face at all, Winchester. Man up!_

“Are you jealous, Dean?”

Long years of lying served Dean in this moment. His jaw clenched only an instant before he smiled and laughed, wildly hoping that the false notes of the sound escaped his angel. _The_ angel. _Damn!_

“No! Jealous of a hell bitch? Cas, did you down a liquor store again?” He schooled himself out of wincing at the pained expression on Cas’ face.

Cas shrugged his shoulders almost petulantly. It was too adorable to be fair.

“So, are you going to help me get the cheeto dust out of my wings or not? Because I can ask Sam.”

Dean snorted derisively, then almost choked on the sound as a pang of jealousy hit him. “Like hell you’re going to ask Sam! Fine. Spread em’ if ya got’em.”

Cas shimmied his wings out from under himself, trying to look nonplussed at his victory. The truth was, no one was allowed to touch his wings but Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester didn’t need to know that, however. _I’m positively human,_ Cas thought, smirking, to himself.

The hunter wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt, then decided to wash his hands quickly. He would never feel that he was clean enough, physically or otherwise, to be permitted to do this sweet and simple task, but by God or whoever was pulling the strings up there now, he was going to try. Hands acceptably dry, he began to comb his fingers through the feathers, each stroke gentling as the softness of the holy wings won out over his tiredness and irritability. If this was the only part of Cas he ever got to touch besides the occasional hug, he could almost be content.

Almost.

Cas leaned into Dean’s hands with a delighted rumble deep in his throat. ‘Blissed out’ was a phrase he had picked up from surfing the internet while the brothers were asleep, and he felt that now he finally had some sense of what precisely the phrase was describing. A long unscratched itch (though he had needed to look up what the sensation of ‘itch’ described. He found that Wikipedia was a most helpful tool in his search to understand humanity) was finally being appeased and it was, not to use the word in irony, heavenly. Dean’s fingers brushed a particularly noisome knot in his wing muscle, and the limb flexed of its own accord-- directly into the hunter’s face.

SMACK!

“AGH! God damn son-of-a-bitch there are BONES in your wings Cas, you want to break my face?”

Dean covered his stinging, smarting nose with a hand, fighting the tears that were threatening to form in his eyes. _Bloody hell that hurt!_

“Why would I want to break your face, Dean? I quite enjoy your countenance.”

Dean chose in that moment to ignore what may or may not have been Cas complimenting his face, however strangely worded it was. “I enjoy it in one piece, you almost broke my nose! Look, it’s bleeding!” He held up two fingers, barely smeared red, practically pouting his pain and displeasure.

Castiel struggled not to laugh. “It’s not broken Dean. You’re being dramatic. Besides, I could heal your nose if it _were_ broken.”

“Dramatic my ass…” He snuffled a bit, but wiped his fingers on his jeans in a gesture that would have made Sam wince, and returned to his task-- head angled far away from the wings this time, however.

Castiel settled comfortably into the couch, carefully arranging his wings to give his friend better access. “Is that better, Dean?”

“Yeah.”

Cas turned his face away, hiding an unbidden blush. _That_ was an aspect of impending humanity that was getting annoying.

Minutes passed in mutual contentment. Speech was unnecessary-- the tug and glide of fingers over feathers and the gentle hums and sighs of relaxed pleasure were conversation enough for them. The occasional twig, or green leaf (and at one point, an entire blossoming flower) was extricated from the tangled feathers, and the articles carefully placed in Dean’s pockets as the wings were smoothed down in perfect order again.

“So pretty,” Dean breathed to himself, just below a whisper.

Cas smiled lazily. “Sorry Dean, what was that?”

“What? Uh, nothin Cas. It’s not important.”

A moment.

“Just thinking though, maybe we should make this a thing. Y’know, if you can’t reach your wings to do this yourself. If you want. Or not. It’s cool.”

A pin feather flicked thoughtfully on Cas’ left. The silence stretched for a moment, making the other man nervous. “That would be… nice. I’m just wondering how I can return the favour. What do you need groomed?”

There was simply no chance for Dean. His only safety was to hide behind one of the outstretched wings and do his best not to have a coughing fit as the blood drained out of his face. _What the hell kind of question…_

“Uhhh, y’know what? I’m good. You can, um, do dishes. Sometimes. When we have some. Dishes are safe.”

“But the dishes are not actually a part of you, Dean. I wish to return the favour equally.”

Dean swallowed past the lump of terror in his throat as quietly as he could.

“Um, laundry? That’s kinda the same thing right? Anyway, I’m the one who owes you, you always heal me and patch me up with angel mojo. Let’s call that square, ok buddy?”

Castiel sighed, shaking his head at Dean’s dodging. Understanding humans was time consuming. “I still don’t see how that’s the same.”

They were quiet again, Dean’s short but dextrous fingers splayed over feather and muscle and bone, cleaning and massaging where the wings seemed tense and cramped. Peace settled on them again.

“You could let me brush your hair,” Castiel said thoughtfully. “You don’t have that much, it wouldn’t take long. Sam’s takes ages to untangle.”

“You... brush Sam’s hair?” Again a revelation to Cas’ leisurely activities with their mutual acquaintances left Dean somewhat flabbergasted.

“When he needs the help. And sometimes when he doesn’t. It’s very soft.”

“Well that’s not… girly… at all. When did you start brushing his hair? Are you painting each other’s nails now when I’m not looking? You’re making this up.”

“Why would I do that? Really, Dean, it’s a shame you two don’t share conditioner.”

Dean paused, and Cas wanted to sigh. He was a soldier, he wasn’t made to be...subtle. Stealthy yes, maybe even sneaky if the occasion called, but he was no diplomat like Gabriel had been or Sam was. He had no idea how to say things..gently. He did release the sigh when Dean shook his head and started combing through the tangles again.

“You’re trying to weird me out, you are totally messing with me right now… And how do you know we don’t use the same conditioner?”

“I haven’t touched your hair, Dean. At least not when it hasn’t been covered in blood and viscera.”

“So we _could_ share conditioner, you don’t know.”

A silence settled between them while Castiel attempted to find a new tack in this increasingly strange conversation. Finding none, he gave up.

“I don’t understand what you’re playing at, Dean. Either tell me what conditioner you use or let me touch your hair.”

“No way! A man’s hair is his… castle. Or something. It’s weird, Cas.”

“But I let you touch my wings. That’s far more intimate than letting you touch the hair on my head.”

Dean groaned inwardly. “Cas, do not say ‘intimate.’ That’s a chick word.”

“I was not aware that English words had inherent genders.”

“They don’t. Just some of them do. Like, um, Latin…” It was a lame excuse, even for him. And if Sam did let Cas brush his hair, he was out of arguments. Besides, he hated the slight but disappointed slump to Cas’ shoulders when he was denied small things.

_What the hell._

“Fine, you can touch my hair.”

It was like offering a child a Snickers bar; Cas’ face lit up like Christmas in July. With zero warning or preamble, he twisted around in his seat to run his fingers through Dean’s hair.

_Whoa._

“Hmm…” Cas hummed, biting his lip.

“Okay, what?”

“Sorry?”

“‘Hmm’ what, Cas?”

“Oh. You use too much hair product. It’s kind of crunchy.”

Dean blushed along his freckles. He quickly shook his head and snapped back in irritation, “I don’t use hair product. And it is not _crunchy_.”

“Clearly you _do_ need help grooming. Dishes do not trump hair, Dean.”

“You are _not_ grooming me. We are not monkeys. You want to comb it, fine, but no grooming.”

Castiel opened his mouth to point out that technically combing was just a type of grooming, but ultimately bit his tongue; he wouldn’t endanger the victory. “Then get me a comb. Unless you want to wash your hair first.”

Dean snorted, considering insisting on a please but deciding it wasn’t worth it. “Shut up, I’m going.”

“You really should probably wash it first.”

Dean returned a moment later with a black plastic comb. “I am not taking a shower in the middle of the night so you can comb my hair because I rescued your wings from one stale cheeto.”

Castiel shrugged, feigning indifference.

“Be that way if you want to, Dean. It simply means I’ll have to comb your hair again in the morning. And you’re the one who was complaining about the state of my wings in the first place.”

“Not if Sam is around, you’re not. Where am I going?”

“Come here.”

“Where ‘here?’ On the couch?”

“Yes, come sit in front of me.” Castiel shuffled backwards on the couch so his back leaned up against one of the arms, wings carefully folded out of the way.

Dean settled warily in front of Cas’ crossed legs, his back tense. He was inherently uncomfortable giving anyone but Sam or Bobby his back- he had too many stab wounds to show for the other times he had given that trust to anyone else. But here was Cas, all sleepy eyes and trust and that lopsided smile, with nothing but a dollar store comb in his hands. Yes, he trusted Cas-- and it was about time he stopped fighting it.

Castiel moved in closer to Dean, his chest not quite flush with Dean’s back. “Pass me the comb.”

Dean handed the plastic implement over his shoulder, decidedly not looking at Castiel.

Who began meticulously running the comb through Dean’s hair.

Dean relaxed slowly, and closed his eyes. It was weird, yes, but a good weird. For some odd reason, he minded the whole thing less than he thought he would. The tingle of the comb’s teeth was followed each pass by gentle but firm fingers. Strain and tension faded from his consciousness as Cas combed and stroked. Faint memories of Mary combing his hair and humming to herself played unbidden in the back of his mind, and he smiled a little at the memory. They sat this way in silence for some time, and it was a moment that seemed to spin gently out into the universe and give everything a soft glow. Yeah, this was ok.

“Hey look, a cheeto.”

Dean laughed then, a genuine hearty laugh. “You got me, Cas. Your point.”

“I wasn’t aware we were keeping score. That said, I am winning by four points.”

“How do you figure?”

“I probably shouldn’t tell you. It’s secret angel business.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but grinned despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I fail to see how.” Castiel’s eyebrows furrowed in something that resembled a frown, but it may or may not have been chased away by a small smirk. “Now stop wiggling. I need to comb the front.”

“M’not wigglin’.”

“Yes you are. Cut it out,” Cas said.

Dean stilled, relaxing back into Cas’s chest, too oblivious with comfort to notice the quickening of the angel’s heartbeat. Or how strange it was that Castiel should even _have_ a heartbeat.

“Happy?”

“As long as you are here, yes.”

“Good, because I’m not moving for the foreseeable future. Wait, what?”

“What?”

“What did you say? About being happy?”

“Simply that I am always happy when you are with me.” Castiel stopped combing and looked up. “I thought you knew that.”

“I… Y-yeah. Of course. ‘Cause you’re my buddy. Buddy. I’m glad you’re around too, Cas.”

Castiel hummed contentedly and resumed combing.

Dean breathed a tiny sigh of relief, feeling like he had just dodged a bullet.

“Besides,” Castiel began, “I know you love me the best.”

Dean snapped to attention like a tightly wound umbrella, and nearly fell off the couch in the process.

Castiel narrowed his eyes in concern. “Are you feeling alright, Dean? You seem tense. Was I combing too hard? I can use my fingers instead.”

Dean turned to face Castiel, mildly terrified, his mouth dry. “You said-- whoa. Man, slow down. You mean like, love you best out of all my friends. Right?” Dean plowed on, not giving the angel much of a chance to reply. “Like how I love pie. But not, because I would never eat you, or anything like that. I mean, I enjoy pie best out of all foods. You mean like that but with friends. If friends were food. If friends were food, you could be pie.”

Castiel considered the comparison, not quite grasping how Dean made the leap from social acquaintances to pastry. “You don’t really have that many friends, Dean.”

Dean’s mouth snapped shut.

_That’s because I keep getting them killed._

He sobered quickly, turning away. “Yeah well, I don’t like much other than burgers and tacos so you can take it or leave it. Gimme back the comb so I can pack it.”

“Pack it?” Castiel recoiled, instinctively holding the comb out of Dean’s reach. He didn’t want this time to end. Dean relaxed so rarely. “Where are you going?”

“To the bathroom. To put the comb back. It’s late.”

“Oh. Alright.” He held the comb out to Dean, sullen. As quickly as the lovely moment had begun, it was over. Would it always be this way with the Winchesters? The angel sighed, and rubbed a hand that was slowly becoming calloused from its time on Earth over his face.

“I am sorry if I offended you, Dean. For what it’s worth, I feel honoured and blessed to be counted among your friends.”

Dean stopped in his reach for the comb, something blunt and burning catching his chest. Why did Cas have to look so defeated like that? He could never ignore that look, a look of… _bereavement._ Dean struggled for a breath. “Damn. Cas, look, you just… sometimes you don’t know what you say. And yeah, I don’t have that many friends. Look at what happens to them. Ash, Ellen, Jo, Benny, Kevin… God, Kevin…” The hunter managed to keep it together long enough to take the comb and head for the bathroom to put it away.

“Dean…”

“What?” Dean replied from the bathroom, gripping the edges of the sink.

Castiel walked to the bathroom and paused in the doorway. His wings were hazy again, feeling relaxed after all the attention they had just received. “You’re a good man, Dean. There has never been any doubt of that. They never doubted that. I… have also never doubted you.”

“Lot of fucking good it did them. Or you. Look at the shitstorm I’ve gotten you into. Wings all over the place, burning like a candle lit at both ends just to keep alive, fucking _sleeping_.”

“Dean. You’ve always done what you thought was right.”

“Yeah, well. Road to hell and all that, right? I’m going to bed.” Dean started toward the blocked doorway.

Castiel stretched his arm out against the doorframe to fully obstruct Dean’s way. He hurt for his friend in the way that he always hurt, but tonight it was different. Tonight the urgency of time and consternation were upon him. He and Sam lived in the constant fear that any of these nights, in these weeks and months and years might be the night the light goes out of Dean’s eyes, the fires of revenge and devotion keeping him alive blown out by one too many pointless deaths or horror strewn dreams. He felt the flutterings of panic in the back of his mouth. If he was human enough to panic, he was human enough to do anything. He had to fix this now, tonight. If only he knew how.

“Dean, how can I get through to you? What do you want me to say?”

The eyes that looked at him were wilted leaves. All he had feared was coming to the fore. Dean was slipping away.

“Say about what? There’s nothing to say. Things just are.”

“Yes, they are.”

Cas dropped his arm from the door and brought both his hands to Dean’s face, fear and love giving him speed as he pulled the broken, righteous man to his lips. He held on through Dean’s initial shock, held on until the hunter’s hand covered his own, and only pulled away when he felt Dean’s breath deepen into his chest. He could think of no more words to say; he could only wait for the storm.

Dean stared at Cas, wide-eyed and shock-still once the angel pulled away. He touched his lips as though assuring himself that they were still his, and still attached. “Did you just… Cas, did you just _kiss me?_ I think you just kissed me. Why--”

“Because I needed to. And because you wouldn’t stop talking.”

“But I-- you--”

“Dean, shut up.”

His mouth opened and closed in surprise, making him look a little like a fish. As reactions went it was ridiculous, and charming, and entirely Dean. Cas relaxed a little-- the lights were back on.

“You are a stubborn ass and you don’t listen when I tell you what you deserve. So perhaps you will listen if I tell you what you do not deserve. You do not deserve to keep drowning in guilt for the choices of others. You do not deserve to be stuck in this life. You do not deserve your own self hatred and you certainly do not deserve to feel like the only things in life worthwhile are duty and vengeance. There is no point in saving the world if the world holds no joy. So do not choose for yourself those torments that you would never choose for others-- you would never have permitted Benny to feel a moment of guilt for your death should you have perished in any one of those thousands of battles in Purgatory, nor Jo if the hellhound had turned away from her and dragged you back to Hell. For your choice is always to give up what is precious to you for those you have loved. Do you not see that they have loved you, and have made the same choice? You would not blame them, so you do not deserve to blame yourself.”

The two men stared at each other, and Castiel waited for the words to sink and settle in the space between them. Dean broke eye contact first, glancing at the fingers he had touched to his lips, and then touching his upper lip gingerly again, marvelling still at the sensation that had been Cas. He swallowed hard, looking up at the patient angel.

“Then what do I deserve, Cas?”

“To be loved. As I love you. As I have since I first saw the edges of your soul flaring outward from behind the dark doors of perdition itself. And,” added the angel, entirely serious, “as much pie as you can eat. But I can’t really affect the availability of pastry in this lifestyle.”

Dean barked out a laugh at that, and a tear fell to the floor. He looked anywhere but at Castiel, trying to find an anchor for his gaze that might hold him down from taking that last step into telling the truth he had been so afraid of. But all he could see were empty beds and hideous wallpaper and meaningless pictures on the walls, the same as he had seen in hundreds of other places, all alike and all transient. The only constant was Cas. Always had been.

Always would be.

“Ok. As long as I get to love you back. Deal?”

Wings spread and then circled, bringing the two of them closer together in a soft shield of feathers.

“Only if you promise to keep my wings free of cheetos and all other dangerous food particles that might inhibit flight.”

“Only if you promise not to cuddle and watch horror movies with anyone else.”

Castiel's eyes darted to the ground before rising up to meet Dean's again. “I just said that you annoy you.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up, and then everything narrowed into a glare that he almost meant. “You were flirting with me! Wait a minute, wait a damn minute, that stuff about Meg and Sam was total bullshit, wasn’t it? You--”

“Just because I was flirting with you doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a nice head of hair. But you were right earlier about the time; it is getting late.” Castiel paused, then lifted his eyes back up to the hunter. His hunter.

“And?”

“Are you coming to bed?” It was a gamble but, given how far they’d come now, one he was willing to take.

A slow grin slid its way across Dean’s face and his eyes lit up the way Castiel loved, pure and joyful and just a little sly. He stepped toward Cas, herding the other man with his body until he had him pinned against the doorframe. He leaned in, his lips a breath away from Castiel’s, as he wickedly whispered, “Angel, you’re going to be lucky if you make it that far.”


End file.
